Glassy Eyed

Tags

Alex Krauss, Audrey June Forshey, Brigid, Cary North Carolina, Cary Playwrights Forum: Bar Plays 5.0, Class of 1979, Father's Funeral, Maximilian, North Carolina, Redemption, Rinaldi's Pub, Second Chances, Sherwood High, ten minute play, Vesta, Washington DC

SYNOPSIS:
Present Day. Maximilian returns to D.C. for his father’s funeral and following the burial he and his fellow class of 1979 friend Vesta slip into Rinaldis Pub. The friends are quietly catching up with one another, reminiscing about their youth and telling tales of Max’s father until Max spies bartender Brigid scoop ice from the well with a glass, an irresponsible and dangerous action that causes him to confront the bartender.

CHARACTERS:
MAXIMILIAN: Male. Son of the deceased. Fifty-two years old. Dressed in dark suit.
VESTA: Female. Fifty-three years old. Graduated high school with Maximilian. Dressed in dark clothes.
BRIGID: Female. Bartender. Mid-twenties or younger.

SCENE:
Rinaldi’s Pub, located just outside DC’s Beltway, is slow on a mid-week afternoon in February 2014. Brigid is watching television and checking her phone as Maximilian and Vesta, having just left a funeral, enter.

[MAXIMILIAN holds door for VESTA as they enter Rinaldi’s.] 

MAXIMILIAN:
Wow, Vesta I haven’t been in here since, jeez, 1983? Place hasn’t changed a bit, has it?

VESTA:
Well, some. Music’s different. Crowd’s different. Definitely not as many high schoolers as back in the day.

MAXIMILIAN:
Yeah, well, no surprise there. Glad we slipped by with the old drinking age.

BRIGID:
[Perfunctorily] Hey, folks. Welcome to Rinaldi’s.

MAXIMILIAN:
[To BRIGID] Hey. [Quietly to VESTA] Well there’s one thing that’s changed. I think I have socks older than she is.

VESTA:
Bartenders have always been young here. [VESTA nods at bar.] Bar? [Both sit.] How you holding up, Maxi?

MAXIMILIAN:
Okay. Gosh, thanks so much for coming. Seems we’re to the weddings and funerals stage of life, huh?

VESTA:
Don’t forget class reunions. Thirty-five years this June. Damn we’re old.

BRIGID:
Hey, folks. What can I get you?

MAXIMILIAN:
[Looking at Brigid’s name tag then beer taps] Uhm, Bespoke Blonde please, Brigid?

BRIGID:
Ten or twenty?

MAXIMILIAN:
Pardon?

BRIGID:
Big or little?

MAXIMILIAN:
Oh. Twenty, please.

BRIGID:
Great choice. Ma’am?

VESTA:
Let’s have a coffee amber. Small.

BRIGID:
Perfect. Food?

[MAXIMILIAN and VESTA make eye contact, Shake heads.]

MAXIMILIAN:
No. Just the beers.

BRIGID:
Right back.

VESTA:
You think servers ever do anything but glow over customers’ choices?
You did great with your eulogy by the way.

MAXIMILIAN:
Did I? I can’t judge. Just glad I didn’t break down more than I did.

VESTA:
No. It was perfect. Really good tribute to your dad. I loved the part about Alex Krauss breaking into your house as a joke and your dad walking in on them. How he made them pay for the damage and volunteer at Saint Pete’s but didn’t call the cops? That’s nice. Redemption. Second chances. Good stuff the world needs more of.

MAXIMILIAN:
Thank you. That was Dad alright. Work your way back to salvation. To say nothing of the years of gentle ribbing it provided him whenever Alex came over.

VESTA:
Your brother ever hear from Alex?

MAXIMILIAN:
Yeah, they’re still close and we’re Facebook friends. He just started his second girls school in Kenya. Got a local Realtor who’s really into it to help. Gal by the name of Audrey Forshey?

VESTA:
No. Never heard of her. But that’s great. Redemption, triumph and helping others. Perfect tribute.
Hey? Where’s Maria? Really surprised she wasn’t here?

[BRIGID places two cardboard coasters on the bar before placing the beers on top.]

MAXIMILIAN:
Thanks, Brigid.

VESTA:
Thank you.

[BRIGID nods, smiles and then goes back to watching TV.]

MAXIMILIAN:
Oh, God. She’s fine. I literally got the call from my sister at like eight thirty? Just got home from dropping Maria off at RDU- Raleigh airport? She was headed for the Philippines and I wasn’t sure what to do. I texted her and asked her to call me when she got the message and she calls back around three-thirty from Seattle. Asked me if I wanted her to turn around and come home but I told her no. I mean, it’s not like we didn’t know it was coming, right? She was able to change her return flight so she’ll land at Dulles Friday. I’m going to hang here with my brother and drive us back this weekend.

VESTA:
God, Max. She’ll be a zombie.

MAXIMILIAN:
Yeah. Just moral support. It’s not a bad drive down to Raleigh. Wouldn’t want Dad haunting me from the grave, would I?

VESTA:
Pardon?

MAXIMILIAN:
For unsafe driving. He wrote our drivers ed textbook. You knew that!

VESTA:
That’s right! I forgot. He did, didn’t he?

MAXIMILIAN:
Yep. Have I never told you this story? Dad made a promise to God. A death bed promise that if God would save him he would become a doctor and dedicate his life to saving others.

VESTA:
Deathbed? So, what? Recently?

MAXIMILIAN:
Oh, hell no. Back in the late fifties when he was in service. He was mortally injured- injured, not wounded -while on board ship. Got a Purple Heart. Ripped open his insides and they thought he wasn’t going to make it. Flew him home and he recuperated in Key West for months. Flew him! Big deal back in the day.

VESTA:
So your father was a physician too?

MAXIMILIAN:
Nope. After he recuperated he went to college- GI Bill? -but he couldn’t pass organic chemistry. Instead he went into Drivers Safety, an emerging field. Probably saved thousands of more lives doing what he did than he would have as a doctor.

VESTA:
Huh. How’s the beer?

MAXIMILIAN:
Good. Just so long as it doesn’t taste of cloves. Cloves? Whoever came up with the idea that cloves belong in beer? Yuck! How’s yours?

VESTA:
Tasty. I’ve had this before. So your dad was injured in service? How’d that happen?

MAXIMILIAN:
Long story. Junior officer ordered him to do something unsafe-

BRIGID:
How is everything? Change your mind about some food?

MAXIMILIAN:
No. We just came from a reception. Beer’s good. Uh, may I have a water? Twenty ounce?

BRIGID:
Sure. Ma’am?

VESTA:
Yes please.

[BRIGID walks away to get water.]

VESTA:
“Ma’am.” How I hate being called ma’am. Reminder of how old we are. Something unsafe? What does that mean?

[Brigid grabs two glasses and uses them to scoop ice before filling them with water.]

MAXIMILIAN:
Oh. Big storm, Dad was a RADAR technician and-. Wait! Did, did Brigid just scoop ice with a glass? I. I can’t believe that. My dad was also hospitalized while in service when a big chunk of glass ripped open his urethra and that’s exactly how that happens. People use glasses for scoops, chip falls off, lands in the ice and winds up in somebody’s drink. This shit kills people. It’s illegal!

[BRIGID places water in front of MAXIMILIAN and VESTA.]

MAXIMILIAN:
Uhm, hey?! Did you just scoop ice with a glass glass?

BRIGID:
What? No. That’s not allowed.

MAXIMILIAN:
Yeah, I know it’s not allowed! That shit almost killed my dad, and yes, Brigid, you did! We just came from his funeral. What the hell!

BRIGID:
Sir, lower your voice or you’re going to have to leave.

MAXIMILIAN:
“Lower my voice!” Really? There’s no one else here and you just endangered the lives of anyone who gets ice from that well! What is wrong with you!?

BRIGID:
[BRIGID takes out her phone and begins recording.]Listen, you either need to calm down or I’m calling the cops.

MAXIMILIAN:
Or you’re calling the cops? Don’t O. Henry me. Yes! Why don’t you call a policeman? That’d be great! Save me from having to do it. Vesta, you saw her! Hey, record this, won’t you?

VESTA:
Max. Calm down. It’s okay. No one was injured. [Vesta does not film event.]

BRIGID:
Look! There’s no chips out of you glasses!

MAXIMILIAN:
Wait. What? “There’s no chips out of our glasses?!” So you admit that you used the glass as a scoop!

BRIGID:
I did not say that!

MAXIMILIAN:
You just recorded yourself saying that!

BRIGID:
I did not say that I used a glass as a scoop!

VESTA:
Max, let it go. It’s not worth getting in trouble for. What would your dad say? Second chances.

MAXIMILIAN:
“Getting in trouble?” It’s worth getting in trouble if it saves lives. And why would there be chips out of our glasses if she hadn’t used the glass as a scoop?! Good God, if you can’t do the right thing then at least admit when you made a mistake!

BRIGID:
My manager is coming right back! You should leave before she gets here!

VESTA:
Max, we should go.

MAXIMILIAN:
What? Why?! She’s endangering lives. I’d love to talk to her manager. Or to the cops. Brigid, I’ll be glad to sit tight and wait for your manager. You bet!

BRIGID:
Get out! Or I’m calling the cops!

MAXIMILIAN:
For what? Asking you not to kill your customers?! Wow. Talk about callous.

VESTA:
Max, this is getting us nowhere. Call the BBB, call the department of health, I don’t know, take a picture and put it on Facebook but let’s just go. She’s not worth the trouble.

MAXIMILIAN:
Well my dad is. He dedicated his life to helping people, to saving lives and not two hours after his funeral I’m supposed to let some miscreant who doesn’t care if she endangers people, a woman who lies about what she’s done, just skate? No. No!

BRIGID:
[BRIGID lowers her phone as she stops filming.]And if I did do it? If I admitted to a mistake and said I’ll never do it again? Then what, huh? Will you go then?!

MAXIMILIAN:
And why should I trust you? You lied to us, you threatened us and now you’re contrite? Reformed? Please! What is wrong with you?

BRIGID:
I made a mistake, okay!? I’m sorry. I won’t do it again. What do I have to do to convince you?

MAXIMILIAN:
I don’t know. Seem like you care about something other than getting in trouble?

VESTA:
Max, cut her some slack? She said she wouldn’t do it again. What would your dad do here? How would he handle it? Come on!

MAXIMILIAN:
And you trust her? Just like that? First she’s a lying, callous killer and then she’s Mother Theresa? I don’t like it!

BRIGID:
I’m not lying, okay? I did it, alright? I used the glasses and I was wrong. What do I have to do now? Admit it on the internet? Lose my job? There’s no place for redemption with you?

MAXIMILIAN:
Melt the ice.

BRIGID:
What?

MAXIMILIAN:
Melt. The. Ice. You don’t know if there’s glass in there so scoop out all the ice that’s in  the bin, pour hot water on what’s left and then we’ll make sure there’s no glass shards.

BRIGID:
There’s not.

MAXIMILIAN:
Wow! Just wow! You don’t know! There’s no one else in here so you’ve got plenty of time. Provide me with some sign, some measure that shows you’re trustworthy. Sheesh!

VESTA:
Do it, Brigid. Do the right thing. He’s right. You endangered people. You endangered us! Now show us that you’re adult enough to do this little thing. Make it right.

BRIGID:
Fine! Fine. You’re right, okay. Here, I’m scooping out the ice. [BRIGID performs these actions as she speaks.] I’m pouring hot water on what’s left. I’m cleaning everything out with a towel and throwing it away. Satisfied?

VESTA:
Yes.

MAXIMILIAN:
No. Mollified, not satisfied. It’ll do but I don’t like it.

BRIGID:
I told you I won’t do it again.

VESTA:
Let it go, Max. Move on. Redemption. Change of attitude, change of action?

MAXIMILIAN:
Fine. I’ll move on. I hope you keep your word.

[MAXIMILIAN finishes his beer and he and VESTA start to leave.]

BRIGID:
You owe me eleven-sixty-six.

MAXIMILIAN:
For real? Okay. Fairs fair. Here’s twelve dollars. Keep the change, you almost earned it. And keep your word.

[MAXIMILIAN and VESTA exit. BRIGID remains, looking defeated and contrite.]
LIGHTS DOWN

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Case In Point

Tags

Cary North Carolina, Cary Playwrights Forum: Bar Plays 5.0, Fortnight Brewery, North Carolina, Pequod Pale Ale 13, ten minute play, Torstein de Beer

SYNOPSIS:
During routine discussion of the meaning of words at the November 21, 2019 monthly meeting of Ishmael’s Etymological Assembly conversation gets heated over more than the ambiguity of the English language.

CHARACTERS:
Torstein de Beer: Male. Heavy German accent. Wears a Kaiser Wilhelm/Pickelhaube helmet.
Sister/Father Maple: Syrupy US Southern accent. Dressed in clerical garments.
Gabrielle/Gabriela: A Nantucket, Massachusetts radical. Wears slip-on shoes, knickers and flowy, puffy sleeved shirt.
Pip Bildad: Scottish accent. Wears kilt.

All characters have drinks at hand.

SETTING:
November 21, 2019, Fortnight Brewery where Ishmael’s Etymological Assembly is conducting their monthly meeting.

[TORSTEIN enters, places case of Pequod Pale Ale 13 on a wobbly stand, looks around the room and taps table twice with his gavel.]

Torstein:
Seeing that the crew is assembled I call to order the November meeting of Ishmael’s Etymological Assembly. [Gavel bang.] Please note that the case before us rests upon a very unsteady foundation.

Pip:
Mr. Foreskin, I object!

Torstein:
It’s Torstein! Or Mr. de Beer! How many times must I tell you this? And to what are you objecting?

Pip:
Right you are, foreskin. Laddies and genitaled of the jury the case before us is liquid, not solid, and therefore any discussion of its steadiness or unsteadiness is irreverent and unethereal.

Maple:
Objection! Unethereal? Pequod Pale Ale 13 is thirteen percent alcohol by volume which by definition is highly spirited. I move we strike Pip’s erroneous and inflammatory testimony from the record.

Gabriela:
Pequod Pale Ale 13 can be set on fire? [Flicks  lighter] Ohhh! Let me see!

Torstein:
There will be no fires set in Fortnight!

Pip:
Semimonthly!

Gabriela:
Bimonthly!

Maple:
Semimonthly. Bimonthly is both ambiguous, amorphous and blasphemous as it is used to mean both once every other month as well as twice a month! Carnage and chaos!

Torstein:
This is exactly why we can only meet once a month. This inability to differentiate between bimonthly and semimonthly is abominable. Ishmael’s Etymological Assembly found the first Friday to be too chaotic and hence has settled on the third Thursday for our monthly meetings. There is no ambiguity, the place isn’t as packed on Thursdays as it tends to be on Fridays and we know precisely when and where we shall be meeting. Here, at Fortnight on the third Thursday of the month.

Gabriela:
It would be nice to meet twice monthly, I mean, we’re meeting at Fortnight! It begs for a semimonthly get together,

Pip:
Fortnight! Once every two weeks is a fortnight!

Torstein:
That would leave us with 26.07142 meetings 75% of the time and-

Pip:
And 26.142857 25% of the time. Yes, yes! We’ve been over all this before!

Maple:
Except on Century years. Those aren’t leap years.

Gabriela:
Oh yeah? Don’t forget 2000!

Pip:
Two-thousand is history! Twenty-one-hundred won’t be a leap year!

Torstein:
Order![Gavel bang.] Order! [Gavel bang.] This meeting will come to order. Our conversation has flown far afield. Ishmael’s Etymological Assembly’s mission is to dissect erroneous word usages that have entered the lexicon of the English language, not to consider the solipsisms of the celestial fields.

Maple:
Astrological.

Pip:
Astronomical.

Gabriela:
[Stunned with own revelation.] Whoa. Leap years are a semi-biennial. Mind blown.

Maple:
Semi-biannual!

Pip:
Semi-semiannual!

Torstein:
[Bangs gavel.] Biennial is a second anniversary. Gabriela, despite her nonstandard usage, is mostly correct. A thing that occurs every four years could be described as a semi-biennial.

Maple:
I thought it was a plant that lives for two years?

Gabriela:
It’s something that only occurs every other year, so a leap year is a semi-biennial.

Pip:
Biannual occurs every other year.

Gabriela:
False, Pip Bildad! False and inflammatory. Biannual is something that happens twice a year. Like equinoxes. Or Solsti.

Maple:
Isn’t that equini and solsticeses?

Torstein:
It is equinoxes and solstices. I just Googled it this morning!

Gabriela:
Whatever for? What are you, a Wiccan?

Torstein:
No, Lutheran. Astronomy, not astrology.

Maple:
What’s your source on solsticeses?

Torstein:
My source is preeminent and impeachable. I used Dictionary Dot Com.

Maple:
Dictionary dot com? B’gosh and begorrah to steal a quip from Pip! Go Webster’s or go home.

Pip:
Oxford!

Gabriela:
Slip-ons! Laces are for losers!

Torstein:
I perused carefully.

[Pip, Gabriela and Maple all stare at Torstein.]

Torstein:
What?! That is the literal meaning of peruse! To look carefully, not this bastardized skimming you Americans insist on. Do I need to teach you all English?

Pip:
Hey, laddie! Watch who you’re calling an American.

Gabriela:
I think you mean, do I need to teach all of you English, not, “teach us all English?”

Torstein:
That’s literally what I just said!

Maple:
Well, the last part is. Almost. You said, “Do I need to teach you all English?” and Gabbi said teach us all English so she changed the pronoun you to us when we had a perspective change. And teaching us all English would never end as language is an evolving, changing, dynamic entity. I think you’d have much better luck if you tried to teach all of us English.

Pip:
I believe our change in perspective is precisely the problem. The case before us is Pequod Pale Ale 13.

Gabriela:
Which can or cannot be ignited?

Torstein:
Regardless of can or cannot it may not. At least not in Fortnight. You are welcome to take your share home and experiment with them as you see fit.

Maple:
Them or it?

Torstein:
Yes.

Maple:
No, I meant which is correct?

Torstein:
Yes, I know what you meant and I believe both are legitimate here. It is your share but we will divide them equitably as per our shares.

Pip:
Equitably, not equally.

Gabriela:
Justice for Ishmael!

Torstein:
Our society, based upon the principles laid forth by the late, great Herman Melville [All bow heads.] who painstakingly laid forth the procedures by which investors and crew members of Nineteenth Century whaling ships were equitably awarded proportions of profit, distributes our provisions based upon shares. It is all in the Assembly’s charter and any changes in our bylaws must be presented in committee, lobbied and voted upon.

Gabriela:
I so move!

Torstein:
[Gavel thump.] Out of order!

Maple:
Crewmate Gabriela has a point. Why aren’t our shares distributed equally?

Gabriela:
Yes! We pay the same dues.

Torstein:
Because equal and fair are not synonyms. Our dues are more than geld. Those of us who have been members longer have sweat equity. If you’re unhappy I suggest you write an amendment to our constitution.

Pip:
Amendments require a two-thirds majority vote.

Torstein:
[Gavel thump.] Order! Order!

Maple:
I move we move Ishmael’s Etymological Assembly farther than we’ve done before.

Torstein:
Farther or further? Are we talking distance or ideology?

Maple:
Distance! It’s getting awfully noisy in here. I move we move outside to the veranda.

Pip:
Lanai.

Gabriela:
The deck!

Torstein:
Or courtyard. I believe we should table further discussion on moving farther until after we have finished sharing our thoughts on the equitable distribution of shares.

Pip:
Equitable!

Gabriela:
Queequeg! Queequeg! Queequeg!

Torstein:
Order! [Gavel bang.] Order! [Gavel bang.] We shall have order.

Pip:
If you’d distribute the Pequod Pale we wouldn’t have to order again.

Maple:
You know we’re not allowed to ingest or imbibe any outside food or drink inside these Fortnight walls. We gave our word in return for the space.

Pip:
Aye, aye. And aye yai yai yai yai yai. Sprains my sporran every time I buy a drink.

Torstein:
A society is only as good as its word and Ishmael’s Etymological Assembly has given ours. Das Pequod Pale must not be opened until you are home. Arrive alive. Don’t drink and drive.

Maple:
“Better to sleep with a sober cannibal than a drunk Christian,” to quote Saint Melville.

Gabriela:
Body of Christ?

Maple:
Blasphemy!

Pip:
“Talk not to me of blasphemy, man; I’d strike the sun if it insulted me.” 

Gabriela:
Ahab! Ahab! Ahab! Ahab!

Torstein:
Order! [Thumps gavel.] Order! [Thumps gavel.]

Lights Down

Make Our Way

Tags

Fuquay Varina, Holly Springs, North Carolina, Stageworks, The Boys Next Door, Tom Griffin

We four boys, we four men, we four wards struggling
to live life rich and full make our way, we’re handful.
There’s poor Jack, caseworker, who must guide, push and pull.
Every day, something new mundane stuff stumps his crew.

Barry is best of friends. Ringleader is Wiggins.
Arnold with flashing lights, projection, polished plight.
Theater urinals, Corbin sends mixed signals.
Clara has just one word, “Just say no!” Ronnie’s term.

Norman loves all doughnuts, working hard, questions rough.
“How are you?” him dismays, he knows not what to say.
Love int’rest, Sheila girl, not Aussie, Norman’ world.
Little rat, a hamster, fear we crush Warren’s fur.

We’ve neighbors interact, Barry loves golfing act;
misses mom, she’s long dead, focus on Fremus deaf.
Klemper is SOB, heart so small eyes can’t see.
John Hodges golfing game, Hedges is his last name. 

What we call home sweet home apartment in shadow,
shadow of a prison, walls, towers binds us all.
Matters not intellect, social skills or defect
our group home we do strive to create our best lives.

We’ve been taught how to act, say, “Hello!” Invite back.
“Have a seat.” “It’s nice day.” Trivial in no way.
Life is hard when one can’t understand or descant.
We can speak, we all feel, outside world’s still unreal.

Lucien Percival is my name, mind’s most dull.
There’s State Sneck, nemesis, Spiderman, Clark auspice.
We go round in circles when we speak parallel.
Don’t connect but we love, we’ll get by help above.  

We’ve been taught how to act, say, “Hello!” Invite back.
We four boys, we four men, we four wards struggling
to live life rich and full make our way, we’re handful.
We go round in circles when we speak parallel.

Altruisn’t

Tags

"An Introduction to Shakespeare", "Othello", Altruism, ’Do a good turn daily’, Casio from Shakespeare's Othello: "'Tis my breeding that gives me this bold show of courtesy.", Falls Lake State Park, North Carolina, University of Maryland College Park, Wake Forest North Carolina, Woodsy Owl: "Give a hoot- don't pollute."

I was twenty-years-old, a sophomore at University of Maryland College Park enrolled in “An Introduction to Shakespeare,” when one of my classmates declared, “There’s no such thing as altruism. People volunteer do unpleasant things because it brings them pleasure. People can be forced to do what they don’t want, they van be coerced, I mean, getting paid is a form of coercion, right? But the reason somebody does something unpleasant without force or coercion is because they like doing the dirty, unpleasant thing.”

Two score years later I have no recollection of what it was in Othello that caused my classmate to make this declaration but I can assure you that while twenty-year-old me was convinced that altruism was as real as gravity it didn’t take very long before I came around to my cynical classmate’s way of thinking: We do engage in unpleasant tasks because doing so brings us pleasure. Oh, not the obvious kind of pleasure, perhaps it’s merely the pleasure of a Martyr, but pleasure, nonetheless. I thought of this, fuming, as I gathered garbage from the ground. It was filthy work, I was angry, but I did it to please myself.

My darling Desdemona, er wife, declared that we should spend our Sunday hiking and swimming in nearby Falls Lake State Park in Wake Forest, North Carolina. As an added bonus we went for a half-hour run near home. Our run, though slow, was still a lot of work for decrepit me but I “enjoy” running so it wasn’t our a.m. warm-up that got me reminiscing about Iago and crew, it was our easy Lake Trail hike that had me reviewing my conversation from bygone days concerning the nature of altruism.

We brought provisions for a lengthy siege. Beach chairs, beach hats, beach umbrella, sandwiches, fruit, iced-tea, energy-bars and books to read. We settled into a shady nook twenty feet from the water’s edge and read a bit before gathering our Camelbacks and heading out on our hike.

This was our inaugural trip to Falls Lake and for our first foray we took the path of least resistance, a meandering, flattish, 1.5 mile strip that connects the half-dozen shelters and pavilions that North Carolina provides for recreation and leisure along Fall Lake. The Lake Trail was pleasant and the sound of people at play in the pavilions reached us before we caught sight of them. This created a little game between the two of us of “What are they doing?” as we encountered parties, church services and mini political rallies on our hike. We also encountered litter along the trail and as we did we’d pick it up and carry it to one of the waiting trash cans that accompanied each of the dozen pavilions.

Bending over, I sighed as I picked up a Michelob Ultra bottle, stifling words of condemnation concerning humans’ inability to care for our environment.  I am unable to stifle my disgust as we round a corner and come upon two turkey vultures picking through a bushel of trash strewn around a barbecue pit. I freeze. “Holy Hannibal’s pachyderm!” I declare (or words to those effect) “This is disgusting!” I add, feeling sick to my stomach.

I do not enjoying rifling through food waste, the stench assaulting my olfactory and the slime of decay making the skin on my bare hands crawl. I do not enjoy picking up after cedros, human pigs who cannot cart their own basura twenty feet to a waiting trash receptacle. I don’t like any of that but I do like leaving an outdoor area better than the way I found it and- Hey let’s be honest! -feeling morally superior for having done my Boy Scout good deed for the day.

Plus I got bonus points. A park ranger “caught” me cleaning up the mess and was very thankful. As I said to him, “I may be a pendejo, but I’m not that kind of pendejo.”

Falls Lake State Park is nice. We’ll make the half-hour drive and do further exploring in the future but let me leave you with two final thoughts; first, Casio from Shakespeare’s Othello: “‘Tis my breeding that gives me this bold show of courtesy,” and let us close with the immortal words of Woodsy Owl: “Give a hoot, don’t pollute.”

Two Nights: Part 9 of 50- a Tony Kneel Tale

Tags

"Pillow Talk"- Sylvia Robinson, "Roadhouse" - Patrick Swayze, "Why We're Catholic"- Trent Horn, Florida, Jean Kneel, Kevin Kneel, North Carolina, Road Trip, Tony Kneel

NINE

          God may have mercy on my soul but in response to my Facebook post concerning Why We’re Catholic my son Kevin comments back, “Trent Horn is a nice man. You be nice.”

          I shoot back, “I’m going to read it word for word,” and shake my head. Last night I have an in depth conversation with a woman who believes wholeheartedly in the power of astrology while simultaneously valuing science and its methods and  eschewing religion and  today my son, who thinks the Roman Catholic Church is the direct descendant of Jesus Christ via His proclamation that Peter was the rock upon which He would build His church and that somehow makes popes and church divine, is my cross to bear. Madre de dios! So many perspectives and so many people convinced that we have found the way, the truth and the light. I sigh, Jean looks my way.

          “What’s up?” she asks.

          “Kevin. He’s in love with this abysmal book,” I respond, waving Why We’re Catholic in the air.

          “Chocante!” Jean replies from the driver’s seat. “I told you he’d be bothered.”

           “And so I’m not supposed to express myself?”

         “Blessed is the peace maker for he shall have a pleasant Christmas. Or something like that?”

          “No. they’re the ones who inherit the Earth, or at least a three foot by eight foot section. Don’t beatitude me, my attitude’s not the problem here.”

           “Who sang it takes two to tango, takes two to even compete?”

         “Man! That’s a good one! Song’s called Pillow Talk; not sure who sang it. Diana Ross? Sounds like a Google question.” I hold up my left index finger, tap my phone and say, “Okay, Google who sang Pillow Talk?”

          Google directs me to Wikipedia where I learn that Sylvia Robinson is the soulful voice behind Pillow Talk, and that despite my ignorance of MS Robinson, she had a long and prosperous career dating from 1951 through the end of the Twentieth Century. “Not Diana Ross, Sylvia Johnson. Wikipedia says she had lots of hits and died in 2011 at the age of seventy-six.”

           “Died young, didn’t she?” Jean responds.

          I bite the right side of my lower lip, toggle my head back and forth while saying, “Kind of. Younger than I’m planning to go.”

           “Life is short,” Jean replies, slapping her left turn signal on, checking her side view before pulling out of the right lane and into the left in order to pass the merging tandem tractor trailer that lumbers down the on-ramp ahead of us. “We all need as many blessings as we can get. Be nice, Tony, until I tell you it’s time not to be nice.”

          “Hey! That’s my Roadhouse line! You can’t use Patrick Swayze against me; I use him against you, you hot-headed New Yorker!”

           “Looks like I did, hot shot. And hey, nobody puts Baby into a corner.”

          I shake my head frantically to dispel the mixture of movie madness my beloved has sent my way. “Just get us to Florida,” I reply, “I’m looking forward to having the time of my life,” I deadpan.

Two Nights: Part 8 of 50- a Tony Kneel Tale

Tags

"Why We're Catholic"- Trent Horn, Florida, Jean Kneel, North Carolina, Road Trip, Tony Kneel

EIGHT

The next rest stop was another twenty minutes south and by the time I exited the highway my need to relieve myself had grown to mission critical. Turning into a parking spot I asked, “You coming in?” as I frantically unhooked my safety belt and opened the door.

“No. I’m fine,” Jean answers, her voice poised perfectly between condescension and humor at my expense.

“You’re quite the nudge,” I say, tossing her the keys. “I’ll be right back,” I add, closing my door and scurrying toward the building that houses the lavatories.

I return to the car to again find Jean firmly in the driver’s seat, an apt metaphor for my life. I do the eyebrows raised shrug, slip into shotgun and buckle-up. “Take it that you’re driving?” I ask, plastering her father’s sarcastic grin on my homely mug.

“Wow. Thanks, Pa,” she says, immediately getting my pantomime of her patriarch. “Yes, I’m driving and you’re reading.”

“Reading what?” I ask.

Jean gives me a dirty look before slapping her left turn signal, checking her side mirror and accelerating onto I-95 southbound. “The Catholic book, you schnook. Your turn.”

My sigh is both deep and audible. “Why is it my job to be Job? What-evs. Where were you?”

“Finished chapter three; somewhere around page 25?”

I sigh again, grab the book from atop the storage box that separates the two front seats and, in my best Walter Cronkite, intone, “‘Why We’re Catholic. Chapter four, ‘Why we believe in God. In high school I only cared about God when I was in a bind on a math test and figured praying couldn’t hurt,’” I read aloud from Trent Horn’s book. “‘But most of the time I didn’t think the creator of the universe cared about me. Frankly I didn’t care much about him or “it” either. My attitude began to change, however, one Thursday afternoon in my tenth-grade English class.’

“How appropriate. He was a sophomore,” I sarcasted. “Nothing like a wise fool.”

“Just read,” Jean replies, shaking her head.

I read. I read about greasy pizza, the identity of the creator, pantheism and other “false” beliefs. I read through six more chapters and 48 pages of solipsistic logical pirouettes that neither entertained nor informed. Mr. Horn has his cornucopia of confirmation bias and I had my own horn of plenty of dissimilar observations, revelations and cogitations.

What really bothers me isn’t our opposing views but rather the slipperiness of T. H.’s narrative, how he explains the inexplicable in a linear, eureka, here is the key to understanding and enlightenment as a given, I have revealed undeniable truth fashion. Juxtapose this with his presentation concerning paradoxes that result from failure of language as though they are true paradoxes and my view on Trent Horn’s veracity is challenged. Disingenuousness in the name of a “Noble Cause” is exactly how I view religion and here’s good ole Trent using this technique to guide and teach. Sigh. It takes a sophomore, a wise fool, to not understand that language, logic, faith and reason are all flawed tools and to present arguments as proven when they are sketchy but agree with and advance our agenda while decrying as false ones that are more persuasive but disagree with our perspective is at best naïve and, in fact, spurious.

I was not amused and in my lack of amusement the Walter Cronkite presentation altered to one more saccharine. Each chapter, subheading and highlighted note became the focus of ridicule. Talk about confirmation bias! Even as I mocked Horn’s words I laughed at self. Good thing my stones were only verbal, otherwise I’d be up on assault charges for all the rocks I threw.

“You know,” I say to Jean, taking a sip of water and closing the book, “I need to read this word for word and post it on my YouTube page. I wonder if that’s legal?” I add, convinced that it would be an absolute affront to copyright law.

“No, and no!” Jean insists. “Kevin gave you that book to read; you are not going to do that!”

“We’ll see,” I respond, already convinced that I won’t; not worth getting sued over, let alone hurting the boy. “But I am posting on Facebook how much I love this book,” I add with an eye roll as I snap a photo of the book’s cover and post, “Pretty sure I’ll be reading this book aloud word for word for your edification and listening pleasure. May God have mercy on my soul.”

Two Nights: Part 7 of 50- a Tony Kneel Tale

Tags

Diet Coke, Florida, Jean Kneel, North Carolina, Rick Torres- "Don't yuck my yum!", Road Trip, Sweet Tea, Tony Kneel

SEVEN

        After a quick potty stop -sucks getting old- and washing of hands we ordered our food to go. Lunch was a terrible-for-you yet terribly delicious Wendy’s bacon maple chicken sandwich combo meal. I ordered mine deep fried while Jean got hers grilled, natch. In neck baring acknowledgement of her absolute dominance over me I also ordered root beer while she ordered unsweetened tea.

          Sweet tea in the South has been known to hold stirring spoons upright -and that’s without any ice in the glass- and Jean is loath to put such impurities into her beautifully sculpted and exquisitely aging form. Meals in hand, we got back in the car and took off. I look at our drinks and say, “That one’s got to be mine, see the carbonation bubbles?”

            “They both have carbonation bubbles,” Jean replies exhaling sharply, shaking her head and taking a sip of the drink I’d claimed as my own. “Whew!” she exclaims. “You’re right, that’s root beer. How can you stand that stuff?”

         “Hey! I’m on vacation! Weren’t we just talking about John? What would he say?”

        “Oh, there’s no doubt your brother would play the vacation card to sweep his dietary misdeeds under the rug. Man,” she continues, looking at the bubbles that floated beneath the top of her translucent plastic take-out-cup lid, “there’s no way this is tea.”

         There was no need for Jean to verbalize her disgust concerning the soft drink she’d been given, her face would have sufficed, but why not guild that lily and groan emphatically. “Ohhh! That’s gross! Take a sip of this won’t you? I don’t even know what that is!”

       “Is this one of those tricks where people get you to smell something disgusting?” I ask, pulling the straw out of my root beer, sticking it in her cup and sipping. “Diet Coke, and you’re right; that is disgusting. Want my root beer?”

        “Uck! No. Yuck. I’ll drink water,” she says, shaking her head and sighing. “Well,” she said after taking a big bite from her sandwich, “at least this is good. But it’s messy, Be careful.”

        “Driving or eating?” I asked. “Would you give me my fries first? The sandwich’ll be a lot better if it’s not piping hot than the fries will.”

     “Both,” she answers, pouring the fries into the big carry-out bag and placing it between my legs.

          “Hmmm, somethings getting hot down there,” I say, grabbing two fries and popping them into my mouth.

        “I’m sure, Mr. Potato Head. Now drive. Do you want my Diet Coke or should I dump it?”

          “Dump it?! What are you, a spendthrift? Leave it, I’ll drink it.”

        “You like Diet Coke?” Jean shakes her head rapidly back and forth five times. “Yuck!”

      “Hey! ‘Don’t yuck my yum!’ as Rick Torres says. And no, not really but you know I can’t abide wasting food.”

      “I’m pretty sure Diet Coke doesn’t count as food, but what-ev. This sandwich is delish!”

        Eating the fries was easy, the sandwich not so much; as Jean had warned it was messy and really required two hands as opposed to the one I was giving it. I drank the delicious root beer as I ate the fat, greasy, nutritionally valueless oh-my-god this is delicious food and then sipped on the Diet Coke until it was finished. “Hmmm,” I say, “there’s one other thing about that Coke.”

          “And what would that be?”

           “I need another rest stop. I got to go.”

           “You are such a child,” Jean said, shaking her head.

           “I agree. Still got to go. I’m pulling over at the next rest stop.”

Two Nights: Part 6 of 50- a Tony Kneel Tale

Tags

Florida, Gerri Marginski, Jean Kneel, North Carolina, Road Trip, Tony Kneel

SIX

Jean makes it through chapter three and stops. “Okay,” she declares taking another big drink of water. “That’s enough for me.”

“Yeah, it really is bad; isn’t it?” I reply.

Jean tisks, furrows her brow and shakes her head while declaring, “No! It’s my throat! Man! Open minded or what?”

“Me?!” I demand indignantly. “After the horse piss you’ve been gargling for the last hour or so? Come on!”

“Well you need to read the rest of it. Kevin wants you to.”

“Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God,” I mutter. “Really? He’s not my boss! His name isn’t Jean,” I add sticking my tongue out at her.

“No, but he’s your son. Just read it,” she says, raising her voice’s intonation so her demand takes on plea like qualities.

“‘The things we do for love.’”

“No rain or snow here, but maybe tomorrow at the stadium. You remember to bring a raincoat?”

I smirk at here unintentional double-entendre, realizing even as I do so how juvenile that makes me. I push through and do not say, ‘No, I got a vasectomy; remember?’ and just answer, “Yep. It’s in the backseat.”

Jean tilts her head and looks at me. “You sure?” she asks, twisting her body to look in the back. “I don’t see it.”

“Hmm. Yeah. Pretty sure. Must be in the trunk?”

“That sounds like a question, not a statement,” she responds. “I guess we’ll see; we’re definitely not going back for it.”

“‘But I forgot my ski pants!’” I whine before guffawing.

“Oh my God!” Jean laughs back, “Gerri Marginski! Wow. I haven’t thought of her in forever! Whatever happened to her? Does John know?”

“Yeah. He said something about it. Somebody died? Her mom or brother or somebody? Anyway, John saw her at the funeral. She’s alive and kicking.”

“I bet she is,” Jean said. “At least we can afford to buy you a jacket if we have to.”

“Yeah,” I say wistfully, “a lot’s changed in what? Thirty-six, thirty-seven years? Man. We’ve been together a long time. It’s been nice,” I add, reaching over and patting her knee.

“It has,” Jean smiles back. “And you still aren’t getting any car nookie.”

“What!” I roar. “Can’t a guy be sincere every once in a while?!”

“Well, buddy-boy, some guys can; just not sure about you,” she says, patting my hand and turning the radio back on.

The funny thing was my statement was a simple outpouring of affection with no devious or salacious intent. Sometimes even the people who know us best don’t even know us at all.

Two Nights: Part 5 of 50- a Tony Kneel Tale

Tags

"Why We're Catholic"- Trent Horn, Florida, Jean Kneel, North Carolina, Roadtrip, Tony Kneel

FIVE

           My initial concerns regarding the qualities of Trent Horn’s Why We’re Catholic turn out to be incorrect; the book is worse than I feared. “Oh my goodness!” I exclaim after Jean reads two chapters aloud, “Could this be any more sleight-of-handy and biased? Such great detail when he’s arguing against others and such glossing over when his stand is weak. I feel like the goal is just to win a debate rather than reveal truth. How… Twenty-first Century American! When was this book published?”

“Hang on,” Jean replies, sipping some water and checking the inside cover, “two-thousand-seventeen.”

“Wow. Just wow. Did you catch his B.C., A.D. dating?” I ask, adding, “How un P.C.! Part and parcel with the presentation though. Forget that less than a fourth of the world thinks Anno Domini is a correct catchphrase or believe Christ walked among us two eons back. Nothing like diversity and this is nothing like it. How you doing with it?”

“The message or the media? This reading aloud thing is hard on my throat. It’s definitely biased -Duh!- and glosses over things. What’s the term for when people fish for facts to support a belief they already hold? Confirmation bias?”

“Yeah, I don’t think that’s the phrase we’re looking for but I’d say that’s exactly what this is, a great big self-confirming soft look at things that support and a take out the microscope and find a flaw in the argument of anything in opposition to Padre Pope’s One True Church. Scary. Data mining? And it’s medium, by the way. Media is plural.”

“You sure?”

“Positive. Junior English.”

“But Horn’s not data mining. That’s a good thing; when somebody takes big data and uses it to come to hitherto unknown conclusions.”

“Did you just say, ‘hitherto?’” I ask. “I’m going to have to pull over and have my way with you if you keep talking like that.”

“Well then I’d better stop, no car nookie for me. You’ll have to wait.”

“That’s the second time you’ve told me that today. And who said anything about a car? Whatever happened to our old friend alfresco?”

“Al is no longer available, especially on the side of one of the busiest interstate highways in the US. Keep it in your pants, Sundance. Ready for more?”

“I haven’t gotten any yet! Yeah, yeah. Read on, McDuff and don’t spare the horseshit.”

“Chapter three, ‘Why We Believe In A Creator,’” Jean intones.

Two Nights: Part 4 of 50- a Tony Kneel Tale

Tags

"Adam Raised A Cain"- Bruce Springsteen, "Uptown Funk"- Bruno Mars, "Why We're Catholic"- Trent Horn, Damnation and Salvation, Florida, I-95, Jean Kneel, North Carolina, Road Trip, Tony Kneel

FOUR

Jean pulls over for gas in Lumberton, North Carolina and after filling the car’s tank and emptying our bladders I take the wheel. “Just stay on I 95 all the way to Jacksonville; correct?” I ask.

“Yep. Pretty hard to get lost,” she answers. “Go south, young man, go south.”

“That’s what I tried to do before we left and you ixnaed that idea-ay.”

Jean shakes her head slowly before reaching into the backseat. “And on that note, boys and girls, let’s open our hymnals to page one in Why We’re Catholic.”

“Oh, for real? You’re really going to read that!?”

“Oh, not only am I going to read it, I’m going to read it aloud; just like we promised the Kevi-meister.”

I shake my head, rub my left temple and moan, “‘My God, my God, why have you abandoned me?’”

“Wow. You are one of the few people I know who can simultaneously blaspheme and quote scripture with the same sentence; or maybe the only person I know who’s willing as opposed to able.”

“Able raised a cane according to The Boss but the Boss’ book says Cain killed Able. I’m not sure I’m going to be able to stomach this.”

“‘Judge not lest ye be judged?’ Come on big Pakei, what’s your analogy for my sister?”

“That there’s a big Zamboni machine heading for me and she just wants to get us off the ice before we’re flattened,” I sigh.

“Yes,” Jean says, “that’s the one. Well, the same Zamboni’s on the way but now it’s your son who’s trying to make sure you’re safe. You can listen while I read; it’s not like you’ve got somewhere else to go or anything else to do.”

“I could get a root canal,” I mumble. “Read on, oh great and mighty Durga! Read on!”

“I’m not sure you should use that particular nickname when I’m reading Bible stuff but whatever. Zip closed your mouth and open your ears, for wisdom to you shall now appear!”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa! Did you just do a rhyming couplet in verse!?” I ask before singing, “Girls hit your hallelujah, whoo! Girls hit your hallelujah, whoo! ‘Cause uptown funk gon’na give it to ya, ’cause uptown funk gon’na give it to ya! Don’t believe me just watch! Oh!’” Reverting to spoken word I add, “Damn, sultry-mama, read on, baby, read on!”